Hot Flash Dog

She comes up for air from the depths
of the blankets,
panting desperately,
as if it were August
in Florida
and she'd been left tied out
in full sunshine,
even though it is Maine
in winter
and dark
and she was the one
who had gone to the very bottom
voluntarily
just hours before
where no air moved.

She'd started at the bend of my knees
where she curled,
and I'd fallen asleep,
back at the hour
when I needed blankets and a dog
to lead me through nighttime.

I had thrown the covers off
myself
and stuck a leg out of the bed
for air
and considered opening a window
even though it was snowing.

She was no longer there when
I became restless
and threw blankets.
She hid where no one could kick her
or warm feet
on her fur.

Now
she aligns herself with my back
and keeps her head above the covers
and I flip my pillow
to the cool side
and wipe the sweat from my chest
with my nightgown
and push the dog away from me
and open the window
and feel for pockets of cold
in the corner of the bed
and place the palms of my hands on the headboard
to bring my temperature back
to where I can
sleep.

And she commandos her way back
down to the bottom of the blankets
where there is less struggle,
and the air is still and safe

Please leave a message

We're letting the home phone go tomorrow.

The number our children have known

and could recite at a clip since they were small

seveneightonethreeeightnineeight!

will no longer be ours.

The only ones who call us on it

are our alma maters for money

and recorded voices

to remind us about dental appointments

or to take a survey

or vote.

The answering machine will go with it,

as will the message my mother said makes me sound

like I'm laughing in the middle,

or sneezing.

The message from before then 

everyone knew 

and still misses.

Please leave a message when you hear la beep

they yelled.

she couldn't say the.

Thank you, they'd said in unison, small children

saying thank you the way 

small children do
when they're told to.

My daughter called one more time

to say goodbye.

Why does this make me so sad?

I miss our phone number.

Now the number I have marked Home isn't for home

anymore.

How will I reach you?

Will someone else get our phone number?

It's the one I'd planned to call if I were kidnapped.

Oh well, I hope the new people who get our number are nice.

This is the same daughter who used an old phone we had

to talk to her great grandfather after he died.

It was a red phone.

She called it the dead phone. 

This is the same daughter who misses every age 

the night before she turns a new one,

who said she'd never forgive us for getting rid of the old sofa

and would never sit on the new one.

I hate change, she told me,

like it was news.

My family can recite old numbers impressively.

8924092 was the lake

7746814 was Gisi's 

7722652 was my dad's office.

My mother can recall her childhood number

on Clinton Street 

where she hasn't lived in 70 years.

I understand my daughter's sadness,

the loss of old numbers,

the way to reach those most loved people

in places most familiar and safe

with all our childhood 

at the other end of the line.

.

Spring Break

I lost

a whole story in the ether.

Sitting seething.

But I’d promised I’d make sesame noodles even though we had no ingredients

besides chicken broth and

a few strawberries

and leftover beet salad.

I didn’t want to make noodles.

Or eat.

Ever.

But I drove back

mad

to Publix for the second time today

with the vinyl bag my mother had hanging

by the door so that I didn’t give in to plastic bags I’d never take at home,

and walked past a man in the parking lot pushing his cart with his arm in a sling

and another man headed to his car with a cast on his leg.

Like they were leaving the ER

instead of the grocery store.

All daylight disappeared

and I was in the cold blast of pretend air.

I found the International foods in aisle 7.

International.

Taco shells and

Ragu and

La Choi.

No rice wine vinegar.

A jar of ginger for $5.99.

A jar of not the right kind of paste

for $7.99 that

my mother wouldn’t ever finish

since she doesn’t really cook.

She opens and heats.

I stood staring at the limited offerings

for so long that a couple who had come by for soy sauce and then

gone down the aisle and then

up another until they were back for

sesame seeds

saw me

standing there still in the same spot

not wanting to buy

and cook

dry Chinese noodles.

or continue to wander and search for the peanuts

and the scallions

and the garlic

and the cucumber

all for a total of five times the cost

of buying perfectly fine sesame noodles

at Kam Wah around the corner from my mother’s.

I put the noodles I held

back

and considered

frozen tortellini

or a roasted chicken

or seeing if the Greek restaurant with the good pita but

with the owner who yells

did takeout.

I walked to the front of the store,

left my empty basket by the door,

went out to the humid warmth and light,

got back into the car

and sat

staring at the round gray clouds that had just poured.

I can’t just go home.

I promised her noodles. And she doesn’t understand my moods,

the ones where I just throw up my hands and quit

eating and communicating and

being rational. It’s not just

hormones.

It’s me when I’ve lost something.

And can’t get back on track

and don’t want to because she could offer to help, too.

I don’t have to feed people.

My mother would be fine with nothing.

My mother will make it fine.

I don’t have to cook for her. I don’t have to cook. I don’t have to. I don’t want to.

My daughter asked why when I came home with nothing.
My mother suggested

the frozen lasagna

the frozen steak,

understudies in her freezer.

I stood and stared out the window at the pool

wishing I didn’t have to pull in my stomach when I walked,

that my thighs didn’t sag and dimple,

wishing someone would say what we’d have for dinner

and I’d sit at the table and eat it,

and my story about my daughter and her patience

I’d written and lost

and my memories of our childhoods

would somehow reappear.